


Invitiation

by PUNIFA



Series: The Lord and the Tramp [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock, PUNK!STRADE, TEENMYSTRADEVERSE, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PUNIFA/pseuds/PUNIFA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock asks about Greg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invitiation

Sherlock asked about Greg.

Of course, he didn’t know Greg’s name, so instead he asked about the “dirty looking boy who got into one of _our_ cars with some of _mummy’s_ roses.”

“He looks like he goes to state school!” Sherlock accused, bright eyes widening.

“That’s because he does,” Mycroft said patiently, coolly flipping a page in his book. Sherlock had come back just as Greg was leaving – he had so nearly escaped Sherlock’s interrogation. His brother’s eyes bugged and he rose onto his knees from where he’d been sprawled on the carpet, hands planted on his now forgotten book. Mycroft had his fingers pinched around the bridge of his nose before Sherlock even began to speak.

“Is he from the city? Why was he in our house?” And, after a sharp intake of breath, “is he your _friend_?”

“Pupil,” Mycroft stated automatically, because before Sherlock had come tumbling into the house he’d been standing by the back entrance drilling that word into his head, squeezing a handkerchief where a rose thorn had snagged his thumb. Sherlock’s lip began to tremble dangerously and he drove his fists against his narrow hips.

“ _I’m_ your pupil.”

“I can have more than one.”

“He has teachers!”

“So do you, and they’re better than his.” Mycroft reached out and patted the top of Sherlock’s head, hoping to avoid a crisis. “I think he needs my help just a bit more than you do, hm? Be sympathetic now.”

Sherlock looked down and picked at a loose thread in the carpet. “…I guess so.”

Mycroft relaxed into his seat, folding his book shut. “If you’ve finished your homework you should wash up and go to bed.”

Sherlock nodded, oddly obedient, and gathered up his things, heading to the library door to do as he’d been told (though he would inevitably be up for several more hours, attempting to read through a college-level biology textbook that Mycroft could see stuffed among his schoolbooks). He paused when he reached the door, though, and turned with a sly grin.

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft frowned at the carefully innocent deliverance of his name, and he raised his eyebrows for Sherlock to go on.

“Why’d you give your… pupil… some of mummy’s roses?”

Mycroft blinked. “A gift – for his mother.” He’d paused just long enough for Sherlock’s head to tip curiously, and he suddenly cursed that even private schools insisted on celebrating Valentine’s day with flushed hearts, chocolates – and red roses.

“Oh. Why just two, then? Not much of a gift.”

“Go to bed, Sherlock.” His brother snickered and ducked out of the room, and once the soft slap of his feet against the floorboards waned Mycroft ground the heels of his hands against his forehead.

Two roses had been a mistake. One would have been fine – just for Greg’s mother. Three might have been excusable – a downsized bouquet. But _two_ , two carried just enough subtle implication (which, in retrospect, was very much his intent) for Sherlock to pick up on – and what if Greg had, too? One idiotic impulse could be the wreckage of their hardly formed friendship. (If they were friends – were they? Mycroft had hauled Greg home battered and bleeding, surely that counted for something?).

It could be dangerous if Greg had, too – Mycroft couldn’t believe that Greg would come after him, but his friends were evidently rough – would they do anything? Even that Mycroft couldn’t quite envision, and if they did he could insure that they wouldn’t succeed. But if they were to tell anyone about his… “crush” was hardly the word, but even so, it would be a disaster – Mummy would be appalled, his school might suspend him (they wouldn’t expel him, would they?) and his name would be tarnished. He shuddered to think what might happen if his father were to find out.

When Mycroft retired to bed that night he’d gotten himself so worked up that he felt slightly ill. He resolved to phone Greg’s mother in the morning, just to see if Greg had mentioned ending their sessions. It took him hours (much longer than Sherlock spent on the textbook) to finally fall asleep.

 

\--

 

The amount of rehearsal he went through as he dressed and brushed his teeth was frankly ridiculous. Of course, much of Mycroft’s life was carefully crafted, but so much thought didn’t need to be put into a five minute phone call that would likely consist of “Am I still coming on Thursday?” and then Greg’s mother’s anticipated denial (which would be meticulously kind and sincerely apologetic) or, if he was lucky and his blunder had gone unnoticed, her polite confusion that he would even ask in the first place.

Even so, Mycroft found his palms slightly damp as he keyed in the number to the Lestrade household. Five tense, endless rings, and then the line clicked into life – he could tell from the first breath that it wasn’t Greg’s mother.

“Hullo?” Came Greg’s sleep-blurred voice, and Mycroft nearly dropped the phone back onto its cradle. Instead he swallowed down his nerves and spoke.

“Sorry, Greg, did I wake you? I thought your mother would have picked up.”

“Mycroft?”

He winced. “Yes. Sorry.”

“No, s’alright, I just got up late.” A drawn out yawn drifted into Mycroft’s ear. “She’s not in. What d’you need?”

Mycroft plucked at the phone’s cord and chewed out a variation of his rehearsed inquiry. “I was wondering if we – if you -” he gave his head a brisk shake. “If I’m still coming over this Thursday.”

“’Course – or have you got other plans? I mean it’s fine if you do – not gonna stop you or nothin’…”

“No, no, I haven’t.” Mycroft leans against the wall and allows himself a silent sigh of relief.

“Good you called, actually.” Greg’s voice seemed to quiver slightly – was he nervous? “Cos I was wondering – since you aren’t getting paid or nothin’ – maybe we could actually switch to Saturday and I’ll get you lunch?”

Mycroft blinked in surprise when he found himself on the floor – he must have slid down the wall. A public outing – not just a duck into a car or a walk together up a flight of stairs. It could be bad for them both.

“…I would like that.”

“Great! The bus is gonna pull in soon – I’m not skipping today. Oh, and Mycroft?”

Mycroft hummed some sort of affirmation past the thickness in his throat.

“Thank you. For the rose – er, roses. My mum said to tell you.” Greg coughed softly. “Bye now.”

“Bye,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, and even after the line went blank he sat there with the phone gripped in his palm. Greg noticed – and he didn’t seem to mind? Invited him out for _lunch,_ even.

When Mycroft didn’t come out to the car his driver came looking for him, worried that he might be ill. His concern grew when he found the boy still sitting next to the phone, and at first he insisted that he must be under the weather, but then Mycroft rose and gently replaced the receiver on its cradle, heading to the car with a faint smile.

 


End file.
